Resist Me
by TheMusicThatIWrite
Summary: Christine is alone. After reluctantly marrying Raoul, the Vicomte de Changy, she finds herself in a world she hates, and resigns herself to a life of boredom. However, that all changes when she meets a mysterious masked stranger in the cemetery... E/C
1. Chapter One

**Hi! This is my second story. I really should be updating my other one, The Phantomness of the Opera, which I will be soon, but I became really inspired by the idea of this one, so started writing it! I hope you enjoy it!**

**Resist Me**

Chapter One

Paris, 12th October 1872

Christine pulls the pins out of her hair one by one. She does it herself, even though there is a maid on hand to do it for her. She is independent this way; she lives her life out by the mantra _If you want something done well, do it yourself_. She has done so all her life. It is something her father has taught her. May he rest in peace.

Christine stares around at her opulent surroundings. She is located in her new dressing chamber, one which has been specially fitted in to accommodate her new wardrobe, which consisted of dresses all made by Madame de la Lune, the finest seamstress in Paris, the great city in which Christine resides. She has lived in many different places, countries even, though the one that still captures her heart is Uppsala, Sweden, where she was born, hence her Scandinavian-sounding maiden name, Daaé. She would do anything, even give her life, just to go home one last time. They say home is where the heart is, and for Christine, that saying couldn't be truer.

However, such a lusted after event isn't possible. Her home is to be Paris now and for the rest of her days, and even though Christine has acknowledged this, she still hasn't fully accepted it. She still hasn't fully accepted that this, the life of a wife, is her new reality.

Christine had never intended to be married. She had never even intended to be anywhere close to the day where she would wear a white gown and pledge to give all of her love to the man standing opposite her, who would no doubt be unfaithful and disrespectful toward her. It was for this reason that Christine was going to never fall in love, and live alone. A life lived best is one lived alone.

She had grown up amongst poverty; her mother died during childbirth, therefore her father had to physically juggle looking after his child constantly and earning a salary, which was meagre because of the aforementioned reason. However, she was surrounded with love and devotion, and in all her life Christine has never asked for anything more.

Jewels and fine clothing hold no value for her. Madame de la Lune's lavish dresses and the second-hand cast-offs bought from the markets in Sweden have the same meaning to Christine – it is a dress, nothing more. There are too many starving families in this forbidding world to waste money on apparel that would be worn once then thrown away.

She sighs, thinking back to the time when she had visited the dressmaker's dwellings. Somehow, her then-to-be husband had managed to acquire a private meeting with Madame, to discuss his new wife's wardrobe. For Christine would soon be the wife of a Vicomte, and having her seen in the plain, dark cotton clothes she was currently wearing just simply wouldn't do. No, she needed new day dresses, new ball gowns, new gloves, new shoes, even new underclothes. In spite of the fact that Christine hadn't aristocratic blood, the Vicomte had decided to marry her anyway – therefore he needed to make her look like she had been preparing for the role of Vicomtesse all of her sixteen summers alive.

Christine involuntarily winces in pain at the thought of visiting de la Lune's again. For it was a painful experience; her fiancé had wanted all her clothes to be the tightest as possible, with the least coverage socially acceptable so he could have her showing of her full assets, which is something Christine despises. Even though she has never been anything but a commoner before now, she still values self-respect and dignity above all else in a person. Wearing low-cut dresses and tight bodices is her idea of hell, yet she must show that she has some sense of her place in life, therefore must obey her husband, her superior, her master.

Her father, for the twelve years of her life that he lived, taught her to be independent and open-minded. He taught her to allow all kinds of people to not just converse with, but to care for. Blacks, hunchbacks, and deformed souls might make an appearance sometime on her life, and she must treat them, who are all types of people cast out from general society, like any other. For they, just because they are different, doesn't mean they should be treated so. And Christine lives by this rule. She has yet to meet one of these special people, but if she ever gets the chance to do so, she shall make the most of it, and endeavour to know them like she knows herself. It may give her the chance to learn something.

And Christine has always been enthusiastic about learning. She knows that the more knowledge you have, the better you are off in life. It shouldn't matter about your wealth; no, you should be valued as you appear as a person, with only your charm and wit to give. _Yet this is not the world we live in_, Christine thinks, _it is not you that determines your life; it is the money you have_. _And now I am rich, my value as a person will be second to that._

Christine rushes over to the dresses, and buries her head in them, tears falling freely into the expensive crushed velvet. _Money is all I am now. What have I done?_

She lifts her head up, but can only see the bright colours of the materials. Focusing on them, she tries to remember the events of her life leading up to this moment, three hours after her wedding the Vicomte, and the exact reason which ultimately lead her down the aisle.

_She was living at the Opera Populaire at the time, earning a meagre living as a ballet girl, one of the skills her father had insisted she master, as it would teach her posture and grace. She was poor, but she had a roof over her head, clothes to wear and food in her belly, so what more could she ask for? Plus, it was allowing her to live and dance in her father's memory; it had been three-and-a-half years since he had passed._

_The cause of his death was a simple fever caught somewhere amongst the dirty streets of Paris. Her father had uprooted them both when Christine was nine from Uppsala to Paris. She had been heartbroken from the moment he first told her, but she grieved silently about the matter, and place all her trust in him. She tried to believe him when he pleaded with her that there would be better opportunities for them to live in Paris rather than Sweden, as it was a well-known fact that Parisians loved street musicians, especially violinists. _

_Unfortunately for the father and daughter, he could not have been more wrong: food and stones were thrown at her father, Gustave Daaé, whenever he performed. One such time even claimed his beloved violin, second only to his daughter Christine. It had been a rainy Tuesday afternoon when he began to play one of his own compositions near the Opera Populaire, a place well known for its extravagant operas. Gustave's reasoning to play near there was simply that music connoisseurs would take more kindly to his music and offer him money in exchange for his services, and there would be more of this sort around the opera house. However, it was there that the damage took place: he was simply playing, moving his bow across the violin's strings in a fast and jovial fashion, when one man, about five-and-thirty years of age, started shouting obscenities to the man, his young daughter to witness. Of course, Christine was still a child, and therefore had no understanding of what the man's words meant, but could tell just by his tone that he did not mean well of them. She thought that her father may say them back – _never hit first but always hit back_ was another of his philosophical sayings – yet he didn't and carried on playing. The man didn't relent when Gustave ignored him; he started advancing toward the pair, shouting louder and more aggressively with every step he took. Christine, at this point, was frightened, but decided against saying anything to her father, for her throat had closed up, forcing Christine to be able to do nothing except breathe. And she did; by the time the still-anonymous man was within five steps of them, she was hyperventilating and in fear of fainting. All she could do was clutch her father's legs (she was sitting down on the ground) and hope to God that this torment would soon be over._

_But it wasn't._

_Nowhere near._

_By this time, Gustave had slowed down to a more romantic, sentimental tune, because it was easier to play; he had been focused on this man. He had never seen him before, so took him as someone who didn't enjoy his music. However, that did not give him any right to threaten him and his daughter; yet he had carried on playing – the protective side of him had kicked in when the man had started walking toward him, and, using his legs, he ushered Christine behind him and watched him. Though he still had some reserved of generic male pride installed within him, which compelled him to not give in to this man, one who he thought beneath him, and because of this reason, he kept on playing._

_About five minutes after this man's blatant irritation and display of indecent behaviour, Gustave observed him pick up a colossal grey rock from the ground. He watched in dread as he watched him lift it a good few inches higher than his head, before hurling him at the family in front of him. There was nothing Gustave could've done to stop him. His mouth and body were frozen with terror as the rock smashed into the violin resting on his shoulder. The violin, which meant everything to him, smashed into a hundred pieces, scattering all over the street. Gustave's eyes had grown wide; his mouth has dropped open. The one time in his life, he was ashamed to admit, his attention was not on his daughter, but on the instrument that had been his loyal companion for fifteen years, now completely obliterated. _

_Gustave had crumbled to the ground, hysterically crying, as his daughter and the man who'd caused his heart-breaking pain watched on._

_The man walked away, his work done. Just as he was turning the street corner, he turned around and stared back at the scene, the exact same as before, and shouted, "That will teach you a lesson. Now you can never annoy me with that bloody violin again."_

_ §_

_Gustave was never the same after that day. Fortuitously, the ballet master at the Opera Populaire, a Madame Giry, was kind enough to allow Gustave and Christine to live with her and her daughter Meg in their small apartment. It was always meant to be temporary; Gustave was supposed to find a job. But his will to live was gone; he never wanted to play music again – his inspiration and passion had been cruelly robbed from him the same day as his violin. He had no will to do anything except watch over Christine and make sure that she grew up to never commit such a despicable act as that, so showered her with affection and anecdotes which would prove to her that she always had to be the best person she could make of herself, and to not be blinded by money or power._

_He died four years later._

_It had been a quick yet painful death; within days of catching the fever he was gone, but in those days he was wild with hallucinations and acts of violence, so terrible that Madame Giry had banned either Christine or Meg to go anywhere near the sick man. Those three days were the worst of Christine's life; the dire state of constantly not-knowing whether he was going to survive the illness caused her to be unwell also. She was perpetually crying and praying to God to release them all from this torment; they had been through enough grief, hadn't they? _

_A few minutes before his death, Gustave had asked Madame Giry to bring Christine to his bedside. Fully aware that he was going to die soon, and that this would be the last chance he got to see his daughter, she obliged. She journeyed across to where Christine and Meg were, and ordered Christine in the gentlest way possible to come with her. Christine could sense that it was something to do with her father, and by seeing the mournful look present in Mme. Giry's eyes, she knew exactly what. _

_She rushed over to his bedside, and knelt down, clasping her hands together in a prayer which begged God to allow her father a peaceful existence in the afterlife. Gustave had softly touched her, and she had looked up at him, tears glistening in her usually vibrant blue eyes, and started to speak, and used up his last moments with a sentence that would stay with his daughter for the rest of her life:_

"_Stay true to yourself, child; it is all anyone could ask for."_

_§_

_The next three years of Christine Daaé's life were a woozy blur full of nothing but hard concentration in ballet. She had started lessons back in Sweden when she was a child, but had resumed now as Mme. Giry said that becoming a member of the company was the only way Christine could carry on residing with them. The older woman had felt bad for giving Christine such a harsh ultimatum just weeks after her father's passing, but she couldn't care for the adolescent any longer without receiving anything in return. It had actually surprised her that Christine was so eager to have the ballet lessons, yet she still felt uneasy about the whole matter, which is why she watched Christine closely for the subsequent three years, and saw her grow into a beautiful ballerina; the best at the opera house._

_Which is the reason why Christine, just fifteen years old, caught the attention of twenty-one-year-old Raoul, le Vicomte de Chagny._

_His family, a prestigious one in France, had just taken on the role of patrons for the Opera Populaire, which forced Raoul into attending performances once a week. He had always hated the arts, and preferred to stick to academia, but couldn't refuse as it was his duty, alongside his brother Philippe, to go with their parents to the opera._

_The very first night the Chagnys attended the production – it was _Hannibal_ – Christine had just been given the role of head ballerina. She was thrilled to be given it, as it meant it was a challenge for her to learn a more complicated routine, for which she was always up for. In the performance, Christine not only mastered her role, but gave a certain amount of graceful charisma and finesse that Raoul was captivated with, and instinctively knew that there was something about this girl that was special, therefore he intended to pursue her._

_For months Christine refused his advances, choosing instead to focus on her ballet, which infuriated Raoul, but also spurred him on. He went to every performance, and visited backstage to find Christine, and congratulate her, and to convince her to start courting him. His parents weren't pleased with their younger son's actions, but there wasn't anything they could do about it: he was enchanted._

_After some time Christine finally relented and gave him the answer he so long wanted to hear: she agreed to go to dinner with him. Initially, it wasn't an action she had planned, but he had worn her down, and she could tell he was going to persist._

_When she did attend a dinner with him, she was surprised to find him quite vivacious and full of spirit: he had an atmosphere of vibrancy which Christine found to be refreshing, having lived in mourning for so long. She didn't love him, but accepted him as a companion, which Raoul had mistakenly thought was affection; she was returning feelings which he had felt for her so strongly for so long._

_He had proposed six month after they began courting, in front of his family and friends at a large engagement ball he was hosting in the very likely event Christine said yes. He had even bought her a new gown. _

_Christine never wanted to marry him, so was filled with absolute horror when he spoke the dreaded words which requested her hand in marriage. If they were alone, she would've declined – but they weren't, so felt it her duty to say yes._

_The wedding planning began immediately. Christine wanted desperately to get her unwanted fiancé alone and to break off the engagement, but Raoul would never allow her the time, he was so busy in planning the nuptials, a task which he bestowed upon himself rather than Christine, which was the tradition. As the day grew nearer, and arrangements were made, she grew sicker and sicker with guilt, which everybody involved mistook as nerves. On the dreaded day, Christine attempted to run away, but was brought back by her bridesmaids – women from Raoul's family; she didn't know a single one of them – and almost forced down the aisle. Once at the altar, the words which she needed to say vanished from her tongue, and she pleaded love and allegiance, to Raoul, a man she didn't want to marry anywhere during the course of their relationship, but had somehow ended up doing exactly that._

_§_

"What is the matter, my dear?"

Christine turns around and unexpectedly finds her new husbands standing in the doorway.

"I don't know what you mean," she tries to reply, wiping the evident tears from her eyes.

"Oh, Christine, whatever is the matter?" Raoul journeys over to his new wife and pulls her into a forceful embrace.

Christine sees no point in lying – the deed had already been done – so simply answers: "I was thinking about my father and how he never lived to see this joyous day." 

"I'm sure your father would have loved to have been here, on our wedding day," Raoul comforts her, oblivious to the fact that her words were a lie. "He would have been very proud of you."

_Would he have been?_ Christine wonders. Would he have been proud at my deceit? _Would he have been proud of me for doing everything he said not to do? I suppose not._

**Please review! Also, if anyone is interested in beta-ing this one, as I already have two amazing betas on my other story, please PM me!**


	2. Chapter Two

**Hi! This is the second chapter! Thanks for all the favourites, follows and reviews! My other story The Phantomness of the Opera is going to be updated soon too!**

**Resist Me**

Chapter Two

Paris, 13th October 1872

Christine awakes, and a wave of drowsiness threatens to overtake her consciousness and force her to fall asleep again, but she fights it, and manages to keep her eyes open, yet her eyelids are still heavy.

It takes her eyes a while to adjust not only to the bright light filtering through the satin curtains, but to her surroundings: a lavish, colossal bedroom, with a four-poster bed, the one she is laying in now, complete with lilac drapes that match perfectly with the aforementioned curtains; white oak bedside tables with gold borders positioned next to each side of the bed; a small dressing table for Christine's maids to dress her hair, and a narrow walkway, which leads to her extravagant dressing room, which is filled to the brim with sumptuous dresses, for Christine to pick out for any occasion. Adjacent to it is a small room for her maids to dress her, using fine whalebone corsets and lace underclothes.

Just thinking about exiting her room into the real world makes Christine feel even more exhausted. Her body aches with pain still, even after twelve hours of committing the act which joins a man and a woman together. Before it Christine was a pure, innocent girl; now she is a true married woman.

The worse part of it for Christine is that even though she knows she can endure the physical pain of the consummation of her marriage, and the many discomforting sessions to come, she is certain that she is emotionally scarred for the rest of her life. For she is only sixteen, and she didn't feel ready to be a wife to a man eight years older than her. She didn't know a thing about the adult world, and found some strange comfort in that. She enjoyed her ignorance, and revelled in her naïvety. It was her coping mechanism – one that had been installed ever since her father's death – and now it has been brutally ruined, without her consent.

A long time before the wedding, Christine began to think that, when she became a wife, she would be giving up not just her life, but herself as a person, which included her body. She had never thought much of it in a sexual way – her body is of a boyish frame, with curves that have only just begun developing, and small breasts. She is quite small – only five feet two inches – and has long brown hair that reaches down to her waist, falling in loose curls, which frames her heart-shaped face. The modest girl that she is, Christine will never think herself beautiful, nor even just pretty, even with everyone telling her she is a rare gift, an angel. When he came to the opera that fateful evening, this was one of the things that Raoul noticed about Christine – her undeniable exquisiteness. He not only loves her, but lusts after her; the second that they were married he would make Christine his.

Christine knew this. By God, she knew this. But she put the irrefutable knowledge off, misleading herself under the guise that Raoul wouldn't just be a loving husband, but an understanding one, therefore would understand when she told him that she wanted to wait before making love the first time, until she knew she was ready; a time when she had grown not only as a person on the verge of womanhood, but a time when she had come to love Raoul as a wife should love a husband. She was satisfied with the fact that she would never be in love, and it comforted her; she could never be hurt emotionally again.

Tragically, she was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

§

_The night before_

"I don't want to, Raoul." Christine had tried her absolute hardest to speak with loud confidence, yet the words left her lips sounding quiet, scared and unsure.

"Oh, my dear Christine; whatever your fears are, whatever anyone has told you, it will not be as bad as it sounds. It will actually be quite pleasurable," Raoul soothed, joining Christine where she was sitting on their bed. However, Christine was unconvinced, and unwilling to back down.

"We are both tired, Raoul, and it will hurt me; no matter what you say, that I am certain of. I think it best to wait, wait until a time where we love and respect each other more than we already do."

"Do you not trust me Christine? Do you honestly think I will hurt you?" Raoul's agitation was increasing. This was not the way this conversation was supposed to go. She, Christine, should be acting like an affectionate wife, therefore be able to give herself without any fears or anxiety, for her husband to appreciate.

"It's not that, Raoul. I'm. . . frightened." Christine turned her head away and, deciding to get up and leave the room, had just begun her intended actions, when she was stopped by a cold, hard hand.

"Don't leave, Christine," he commanded, in such a terrifying tone that Christine immediately sat down again, a look of fear present in her eyes. The horrific thought that he would force himself on her had never occurred to her. She expected he may be insistent, but not nasty.

"Don't I get as much say as you do? Isn't it my body as well?" Christine made sure her voice sounded questioning, but not impertinent.

"Look, Christine; you are scared because you have never made love before. Neither have I, but I have read books on such. . . matters." Raoul's hands advanced toward Christine, and she tried to move herself, but it was no use. His hands were already in her hair and, gathering it all up, he slowly moved it to the opposite side, so that her neck was fully exposed on the side he was facing. "We are both inexperienced; let us learn together."

It had been after that statement that Christine agreed to consummate the marriage. She mistakenly thought – oh, how she regretted it now! – that, because they were both virgins, they would be slow and gentle with each other, and comfort each other through the painful times, should there be any.

After Christine had spoken those fatal words that consented to the sexual act, Raoul wasted no time in getting the clothes off them both. His wife's dress had ended up ripped, but he did not care; he had enough money to replace it. He immediately felt aroused by the sight of Christine's unclothed body, yet could not understand why she did not reciprocate the action. He supposed it must be because she was so young.

He was rough when inserting himself in her. He had positioned himself on top of her, and didn't even stop to think whether Christine was comfortable. His sexual tendencies and frustration had overcome him.

And she wasn't. She was petrified. He felt too heavy on her, almost crushing her internal organs. At one point she was struggling to breathe. Throughout the whole unnatural event she had her eyes squeezed shut, and her teeth firmly biting her lip, to stop herself from screaming out in pain. Christine hated the sensation of feeling her husband inside her, therefore rejected his every action, choosing to stay motionless on the bed.

Luckily, Raoul had finished quite soon, and fell asleep as soon as it was over, whereas Christine was still awake due to the total shock and excruciating agony. As much as she tried, she could not sleep, and was further tortured by memories of the previous night. The whole act had felt awkward and difficult, and at no point showed promise of getting better. He said it would be pleasurable, he said it wouldn't hurt for long, he said. . .

§

The then-comforting words hold no power or value to her now. It had all been a lie, a manipulation to get what he wanted, Christine thinks contemptibly. Has the whole relationship been a lie? I hope not. I can't face the fact that it will be a loveless marriage, as it is already lacks passion.

"What is passion, though?" Christine is surprised when she speaks her thought out loud.

She checks to see if Raoul still lays beside her; he doesn't, so she supposes he must have gotten up and left for business. Even though he hurt her, Christine is still disappointed that he left without word. However, it gives her time to think about the question she just posed.

What is passion? Passion is. . . Electrical jolts running through your body caused by a person's touched. A wave of desire – in every form – rushing over you when you hear their name. The feeling of constantly wanting to be around them. The intense stares, the fervent kisses, the adoring nature. . . Christine only supposes this, drawing upon what little she knows. And she also knows that she has felt none of these with Raoul, ever, and that thought alone sends shivers coursing up and down her body. A marriage without desire and lust she can live with, but one without any sort of connection, of any sort, even just a simple one of friendship. . .

She immediately locks these thoughts up into a little box inside her mind and gets up from her bed, trying to distract herself from the inevitable. She can face many things: death, sadness, depression. But not loneliness. Not again. She doesn't need a husband, or lover, she needs a friend. . .

As she selects a cream silk kimono from her wardrobe and slides her arms into the sleeves, Christine thinks back to when Raoul told her she couldn't dance at the opera house once they were married. She remembers being filled with annoyance, and resent: he was taking her life away from her. And not even caring about it.

§

_A few months before the wedding_

"Raoul, it is my life! How can you ask this of me?" she paces up the wooden steps toward the rooftops of the Opera Populaire. It was just after a production of Hannibal, and her feet hurt from dancing such complicated steps, but she didn't care. She was too distraught and confused to.

"Christine! Please stop!" Her fiancé called after her, but to no avail, as Christine stormed through the door onto the snowy rooftop, leaving the door to slam in his face.

Christine would have appreciated the picturesque scene of the Parisian blizzard, but was so cold she felt at risk of hypothermia. A red cloak, tied loosely at her neck, billowed behind her, it was the only one she owned therefore had already worn it so much it was almost threadbare; a pretty yet thin pink ballet dress barely reached her knees; and her shoes merely protected her toes from the heavy snow that was piled all over the ground. Even the impressive statues of gargoyles were almost unrecognizable due to the near complete coverage of white. Nevertheless, just because the weather conditions were troublesome didn't mean that Christine was going to give up on her point.

"Christine! Oh, Christine, come back inside; you'll catch you death if you don't!" Raoul exclaimed, hovering by the doorway.

But Christine wasn't relenting; his words only made her pace forwards in the opposite direction, her head facing away from him.

"How can you? My ballet dancing is the one thing I'm good at, the one thing that I am celebrated for, the one thing that I can call my own. It is my life. What else am I supposed to do when we are married? Just sit at home and do nothing? Cling to your arm at social gatherings because I know nobody, and have the knowledge that every single person in that room will judge me because I had the misfortune to be born in a working-class family? I will be your wife Raoul, but I will be it as myself, not the rich, upper-class girl you want to make me."

"And I will be reduced to a pittance if I allow you, Christine! My father already disapproves of you –"

"And this is my fault?" Christine countered, fire raging through her body. "It was your choice to be with me. No-one asked you to do a saintly thing and marry the poor orphaned badly clothed girl at the opera house!"

"I know."

Christine had to strain to hear Raoul's words as they were barely above a whisper. He approached her ever so slowly, and this time, Christine did not move. Instead, she turned around to see his face.

"I know, Christine," Raoul repeated, still moving, still focusing on Christine. "It wasn't something my father particularly wanted, yet he allowed me anyway. And do you know why, Christine? It was because I love you. And a life without love is once that is not worth living, as far as I am concerned.

"Regarding your ballet, you can still dance, just not in productions. Once a month or so you can visit the Opera Populaire as discreetly as possible. You won't have to live in fear anymore, and once you show my friends' wives what a wonderful person you are, they will instantaneously accept you as one of them. I promise you that it won't matter where you come from: it will only matter who you are now."

§

But his words, like the ones on their wedding night, were full of false truths and empty promises. There was nowhere for her to dance, and Raoul had categorically forbidden her to go anywhere near the opera house in case she was spotted. It would ridicule them, he had said. Christine supposed that it may have caused a physical scandal, but what about scandals of the heart? Like betrayal and manipulation. Just like his unforgiving tactics the previous night. And the ones used upon the rooftop to convince her that his friends' wives would welcome her as one of them.

She had been a fool to believe his statement to be true. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, there was a nagging feel, a gut instinct, that questioned the authority of it, but she had just ignored it until a month before the wedding when she met her chosen bridesmaids, the wives of Raoul's friends. She had originally wanted Meg as her maid of honour, and Camille and Céline, two other ballerinas living at the opera, to be her bridesmaids. These were girls she'd knows for years, and had established close and meaningful friendships with. However, Raoul had gone ahead and promised the roles to three other women, ones she didn't know at all. She had been so hurt but had decided against telling Raoul in case these three women were actually looking forward to it and couldn't wait to meet her.

Yet Christine was so, so wrong.

And she knew it.

§

_Four weeks before the wedding_

The day that Christine met those other three women was one she'll never forget. It was four weeks before the wedding, and only a short excursion, one of about ten minutes, cut short due to Christine feigning illness and the need to rest. The women, along with their husbands, had arrived at Christine and Raoul's future home. Before, Christine had known only their names, yet needed no introductions, as she intuitively knew what name matched what face.

Estrella, dressed entirely in red, entered first. She had flowing red hair that clashed terribly with her apparel yet had an alluring quality about her, one Christine couldn't place. She had walked straight up to Christine, who was alone, as Raoul had gone off to entertain his friends, and introduced herself:

"I'm Estrella Barnette. Christine, is it?" Christine was surprised by how common Estrella's voice sounded.

"Yes, Christine Daaé, soon to be Christine de Chagny," Christine had replied, but Estrella was already looking away, intent on the next figure walking through the door.

Briar Morisse was her name. She was short and plump, with curly blond hair and piercing blue eyes, ones that seemed quite cold. She had joined Estrella's side, and looked over Christine with a condescending glare.

"So, you're Christine?" Briar looked at Christine's small form, ranging from the tip of her head to the hem of her dress.

"Yes –"

"Briar Morisse, Teddy's wife." Briar's words were a flat monotone.

"I haven't been introduced to either of your husbands yet, actually. I wonder when I shall get the chance," Christine tried to remain polite, but there was something about them that she didn't like.

Then she heard footsteps: light, dainty ones. All three women turned their heads to see who was at the entrance.

She was of medium-height, with black hair that was pulled back into a French plait. Her lips were blood-red, but not from any sort of beautifying product. Her long green tea gown was hanging off her.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," she gushed, rushing up to the other three women and holding out her right hand in the direction of Christine, who shook it lightly. "I'm Rose Scoville; you're Christine? It's so nice to meet you."

"Likewise." A smile appeared on Christine lips; she felt as if this would be the only woman out of the three to accept her. But her joy was short lived, as one menacing look from Estrella ensured that Rose wouldn't be nice to Christine again.

In the five minutes they were all together Christine tried a few times to have a pleasant conversation but all three ignored her, choosing instead to have a private tête-à-tête amongst themselves. It was painful for Christine to watch, yet not entirely unexpected: she knew something like this would happen.

When it was time for the women to leave, they each had an individual goodbye with Christine: Briar just looked her coldly in the eyes, Rose had a pitiful smile on her face and mouthed "I'm sorry" before turning away. Estrella was last, and to Christine's surprise, leaned forward and whispered something in her ear:

"Listen, Christine: you are not one of us and you never will be. This game you're playing, it won't work. Remember, the higher you climb, the further there is to fall."

And with that, she was gone.

§

Christine walks into the dining room and sits down on the nearest chair, which is the head of the table. She looks in awe at the vast dinner table, stretching all the way to the other side of the room, just in front of an elaborate marble fireplace. On top of it, exactly in the middle, is a miniature clock, its gold hands ticking away.

Christine watches the hands until they strike thirty minutes past midday. The chimes are resounding and long, all dozen of them. Yet Christine still has her eyes fixed on them – it is one of the first times in her life she has seen such an expensive clock as this – and has no intention of removing them from the sight.

"Hello, Madame de Chagny."

Christine awakens sharply from her trance and whips her head around to see a petite girl, dressed in a plain black dress with a white frilly apron and matching cap, keeping her light-brown curls in check. She has thin pink lips, chocolate-brown eyes and a smattering of freckles ranging from one cheek to the other.

"Who are you?" Christine demands, only afterwards realizing how rude it sounded. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be impolite. But pray tell me, who are you?"

"I'm Lucie D'Anjou, your new lady's maid, Madame de Chagny. Monsieur de Chagny hired me so that I could attend to all your personal matters."

"Oh, well thank you. I must say your employment comes as a surprise to me."

"Monsieur de Chagny did not inform you?"

"No, it seems not. Do you know where he is?"

"In fact I do, Madame de Chagny. He asked me his very self to give this to you."

At this moment Lucie produces a folded note from her pocket and hands it to Christine, who immediately opens it.

_Dear Christine,_

_I am sorry that I did not inform you sooner, but urgent business was announced to me a week before our wedding, with my departure date today and my arrival date to be one week from now. It seems that somehow, amidst all the planning, this business trip did not come up. I apologize for springing this on you the day after our marriage, and hope to see you soon._

_Love,_

_Raoul_

Christine's expression after reading her husband's letter is one of anger, shock, and disappointment. How could he leave so soon and leave a cold and impersonal letter as a goodbye! For the next five minutes, variations of that though fly through her mind like a spinning top. She feels as if an outcome as this might not be possible, that she might still be dreaming. She even uses the conventional method of pinching herself, and discovers that this is in fact a reality. An outrageous one, but a true one nevertheless.

"Madame de Chagny?" asks Lucie unsurely. She has been staring at her mistress for quite a while now, and it seems as if she has just blanked everything. Lucie hasn't read the proper letter, but knows the gist of it, therefore can tell how heartbroken she must be. To have a wedding one day and to leave the next! She has never heard of such a scenario before.

"Oh!" Once again, Lucie's voice releases Christine from her inner thoughts, and she is glad for it. There could be a thousand reasons as to why his business is "urgent", and Christine is sure she's gone through most of them, and doesn't care for any more. The subject will be revisited when he returns; I wonder how that will go, she contemplates for a moment, before returning to the present.

"Thank you Lucie," Christine says, folding up the letter and letting it drop to the ground. Lucie sees this immediately and bends to pick it up.

"No need, Lucie; let it stay there." Christine makes sure she holds her gaze so that her maid knows for sure to leave it be. She breathes in deeply, and exhales in the same fashion. Suddenly, her stomach rumbles and she remembers that she hasn't eaten since 8 p.m. last night, which was her wedding dinner. "Lucie, it has come to my attention that I am indeed famished. Would you be a dear and inform the cook that I will be needed a breakfast of eggs?"

"Just eggs, Madame de Chagny?"

"Yes Lucie. And please, stop with the all the formalities! My name is Christine, please call me as such."

"But I don't think Monsieur de Chagny would like that, Madame de –"

"Well Monsieur de Chagny isn't here right now, and he may have hired you, but for my services, not his. Therefore, I may treat you how I would like to, and I would prefer to be a little more. . . casual."

"Casual?"

"Yes, casual. Now be a dear and go get me my eggs."

"Yes, Madame de – I mean, Christine. Shall I go right now?"

"Yes you may. Run along now please. I am quite ravenous."

§

Christine manages to scrape every little bit of her eggs off her china plate, making sure none of it goes to waste. When she is finally finished, and so full she could not dare to eat another bite, she wipes her mouth daintily before rising from her chair, and journeying toward the door.

"Christine?"

She turns round to face her maid who is standing in the opposite corner.

"Yes, Lucie?"

"Will you be requiring my services at this moment in time?"

"Oh. . . Well I am just off to get dressed, as a matter of fact, so yes. I will need someone to help me with my corset."

"And will we be going anywhere today?"

Christine's eyes widen in surprise. "We have that option?"

"Well, Monsieur de Chagny has told me that he has left his spare horse and carriage should you need to go anywhere in his absence."

"Oh. . ."

The possibility of leaving the mansion today, or any day this week, hadn't occurred to Christine until this moment. I can go anywhere! To the market, to the opera house, to the cemetery to visit my father. . . She deliberates for a second as to what to do. The first two options seem more enjoyable to her, but she decides that she is obliged to visit her father as he so tragically missed out on what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life.

"I think I will go to the cemetery to visit my father, Lucie. However, you needn't come there; I shall go alone."

"Are you sure, Christine?"

"Quite, Lucie. Now, come with me and help me pick out a dress."

"Really, Christine? You would like my advice?" Lucie's eyes light up in happiness.

Christine smiles. "Yes, I would," she laughs. "Come now."

Christine walks off, Lucie a few steps behind her, giggling in glee. It makes Christine feel better that her maid is so pleased. In that moment before she decided to rise from her bed, Christine had never felt so alone, so helpless, and yet now, an hour later, she feels as if she may have an ally in the daunting world of the Chagnys.


	3. Chapter Three

**This hasn't been updated for a month! I'm so sorry to all my faithful readers! I hope this chapter makes up for it – it's been my favourite chapter to write so far! Also, I have recently updated The Phantomness of the Opera, so check that out when you can. This was beta'd by the amazing Not A Ghost3. Enjoy!**

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Chapter Three

Paris, 13th October 1872

Christine steps out of the carriage and attempts to put one foot firmly one the ground. She wobbles slightly, not expecting her foot to sink through the snow like it does. She didn't expect there to be as much snow as there is.

There is a chill in the air, which Christine feels immediately. She shivers and her hands reach up instinctively to cover her shoulders, concealed only by a cloak and dress. Enough clothing for most Octobers she'd lived through. But not this one. This one was much colder.

Christine turns towards her carriage driver, who is sitting above her, holding the reins of two astoundingly beautiful white horses. They are the finest and fastest horses in all of Paris. The words come flying back to Christine; Raoul said them to her when she asked about his modes of transport. At least that's one promise he kept, she thinks.

"Thank you, Monsieur," Christine says.

"It is my pleasure, Madame de Chagny." her driver replies. "Will you be requiring any assistance?"

"Not at all, Monsieur. You may come back in an hour."

"Yes, Madame de Chagny. I trust that your visit to the cemetery alone should be one not mentioned to your husband?"

"Monsieur, I rely on your secrecy," Christine speaks, her voice flat and emotionless. _This has been an issue with Raoul right from the beginning_, Christine thinks. _Raoul doesn't appreciate modern women. Not at all. He relishes in being in command, the one to tell me what to do. He doesn't like my freedom, but how does he expect me to give it up? It's all I've ever known_.

As soon as they were engaged, Raoul de Chagny discovered that, although his intended was quiet, reserved and polite, she had more independence and liberation than all the other ballet rats put together. It was the only quality he didn't like in a woman, especially her. To him, it didn't make sense, it didn't go, like a jigsaw that was completed except for one piece, but the final piece in the set didn't fit.

As time went on, as he learned more about Christine's past, he could tell why she was the way she was. However, even though it was understandable why Christine preferred to stand alone, in his mind she should have corrected this fault already.

Christine knows how Raoul is stuck in such degrading and demeaning ways; in fact she had questioned herself why he would want to marry such a free spirit as her before the wedding. She needs an answer, an answer based on the person she is, not her looks. Unfortunately, as of yet, the answer hasn't materialized in the way Christine wants it to be.

"The secret shall be kept, Madame de Chagny. Goodbye."

"Yes, goodbye. I shall see you in an hour's time."

Christine's driver whips the horses and they start to gallop and pull the carriage in the opposite direction, out of the metal gates, and into the horizon.

Christine, now alone, surveys the scene around her. The cemetery, the one that is home to her father's grave, is unfriendly and welcoming at the same time. It's a feeling she can't describe – almost as if she can sense the presence of her father. Which is something she cherishes, as it's the only place where she can do so. But, there are also other ghosts there, ghosts of her past, which are restless and unrelenting. Those feelings have made the cemetery Christine's most hated and loved place in the entire world.

There are graves of all shapes and sizes around her, ranging from a simple headstone that are inexpensive and readily available for those who are poor; to intricately carved stone angels, for those who can afford to spend money on a grave.

At the time, all Christine could afford was one of these simple headstones; if she'd been given a choice, she still would've opted for the plain stone slab, as she saw no need in something elaborate to represent her father's death.

Her father's grave is on the opposite side of the cemetery (it was the only location available at the time) and since there is only one opening, it forces Christine to walk through the entire burial ground, gazing upon every plot where someone has died and been buried.

She prefers to look upon the ones where the headstone denotes that there is more than one person buried there. It fills her with happy thoughts, that these people didn't die alone and their lives were not wasted.

She starts to tread through the snow-covered ground, cursing herself with every step that she didn't wear warmer shoes. However, it is a moot point now, she reminds herself, there is no-one coming back for an entire hour. It would be a visit wasted if all I did was complain about my cold feet.

There are sombre graves all around her, all depicting names and dates. Some of them Christine just glances at; others are studied in curious detail. After a while tears begin to form in the corners of her eyes, after learning about deaths of children and babies. She hurries past them, and starts to sing a song quietly to herself, one she had made up after her father's death.

_"You were once my one companion,_

_You were all that mattered,_

_You were once a friend and father,_

_Then my world was shattered. . . _

_Wishing you were somehow here again,_

_Wishing you were somehow near,_

_Sometimes is seemed if I just dreamed,_

_Somehow you would be here._

_Wishing I could hear your voice again,_

_Knowing that I never would,_

_Dreaming of you won't help me to do,_

_All that you dreamed I could."_

Christine turns a corner and begins to journey through the next row, which are full of stone angels, all in some pose from the Bible.

Tears start to begin to flow freely, as she thinks about all the graves, and how her father didn't deserve to be here, in this emotionless, unforgiving place. Somewhere, in the distance, church bells start to toll.

"_Passing bells and sculpted angels,_

_Cold and monumental,_

_Seem for you the wrong companions,_

_You were warm and gentle."_

She is at the end of the row now; the next one is home to her father's, the one right at the end of the row. For some strange reason, this knowledge fills Christine with hurt and anger, and she begins to run toward it, using all her remaining energy.

"_Too many years fighting back tears,_

_Why can't the past just die?!_

_Wishing you were somehow here again,_

_Knowing we must say goodbye,_

_Try to forgive, teach me to live,_

_Give me the strength to try._

_No more memories, no more silent tears,_

_No more gazing across the wasted years."_

Christine takes a deep breath. She is one grave away now.

"_Help me say goodbye._

_Help me say goodbye!"_

She stands in front of it, stationary, her big blue eyes wide open, staring at the curved script on the grey stone.

_Gustave Daaé_

_Born 1828_

_Died 1868_

"Father. . ." Christine weeps, burying her head in her hands. "Father. . ."

After crying some more, Christine removes her hands and stares directly at the part of the headstone which bears her father's name.

"Father. . . I am sorry that it has been so long since my last visit. Why, it was barely a month after I became engaged to Raoul. . . I am married now. I wish I could say I was happy in the marriage, however we only said our vows yesterday therefore I feel it is too soon to make such a judgement. . . Plus, he has left. . . the note said something about business. . . Oh father! Why aren't you here? I need your advice! Did I do the right thing? Have I made the right choice?!"

"And what choice, if I may ask, was that?"

Christine jumps round, surprised and shocked to hear another's voice. She would've been irritated, too, if the voice had not have been so beautiful.

"Who are you?" she blurts out, before she has a chance to take a good look at the figure in front of her.

A man. He is considerably taller than her, and is thin – almost on the verge of skeletal. He wears a long black coat over a suit. But the most astonishing, and perhaps intoxicating feature in this strange man is that a white mask, the same colour as the snow, a complete contrast to his midnight-black hair, is placed with precise meticulousness over the whole of the right side of his face. However, Christine isn't drawn to mask – no, it's his eyes, one blue, one green that catch her attention. She didn't know such a phenomenon could be possible. She's never seen anything like it before.

"I believe I asked you a question before you asked me one, Mademoiselle," he counters, smirking slightly.

"Yes, but I think my question is more pertinent, not one of a personal nature."

He raised his eyebrows at this, and Christine could feel a smile forming on her lips. It isn't like me to be so bold, she thinks. Nevertheless, she is enjoying it.

"Fair point, Mademoiselle. Though it is still correct protocol to answer before asking."

"Then it seems we've reached an impasse, Monsieur."

"Yes, Mademoiselle. If you refuse to answer me, then it seems I must decline you."

Christine opens her eyes wide and stares directly into his. The right one is the colour of the sea, whereas his left one is the colour of the leaves on a tree. They are entrancing to her, and possess a quality that is stopping Christine from ever looking away. Everything else is ugly in comparison, she decides. If I ever have to choose one sight to look upon for the rest of my life, it would be his eyes. They are beautiful.

"It seems we could do this forever, however I must admit my growing curiosity to know who you are, Mademoiselle. Therefore, I propose we start anew, and I will introduce myself. I am Erik, Mademoiselle. And you?"

She smiles; she likes this idea, as much as she likes the being in front of her. "Very well, Erik. I am Christine."

"Christine. . . what an exquisite name."

"Thank you, Monsieur. I am named after my grandmother. . . My father's mother. . ."

Mentioning her father stirs up grief in Christine, forcing her to cast her eyes down to the ground. The hem of her dress is soaked completely.

"And is your father the reason of your visit, Christine?"

"Yes, Erik. . . I haven't seen him in a long time before today, and I felt compelled to. Sometimes it is nice to just be around him and talk to him. This is the only place where I can feel his presence."

"I know Christine. I come here a lot."

"A lot of your family has passed away, I presume?"

"Some members, yes, but none I care for. I am here to visit one of my dear and only friends. He protected me for a brief period while I was growing up. He gave me lodging, for a while, then died."

"Oh. . . I am very sorry. Do you know the cause?"

"A fever. A few days of suffering and then he passed." Erik laughs sorrowfully. "Something as insignificant and trivial as that."

"I offer my sincerest condolences."

"You don't have to, Christine; it is all in the past. Such is life."

"Such a waste of a life."

"I agree. How is it that good souls die young and unexpected when manipulative and cunning people live full and happy lives?"

"I do not know, Monsieur. I doubt anyone ever will."

"I know. I suppose it is just the luck of the draw."

"You must play with the cards you have been dealt."

"Yes. . . Exactly."

They exchange glances, and stand in silence. After a few moments, Christine feels Erik's hand brush hers; the action could've been inadvertent, but Christine decides it was deliberate. She grasps his hand and places it firmly in hers.

Erik turns his head to face her – Christine sees a look of shock and joy upon his face. Christine smiles at him.

Neither of them know how long they stand there for. At the very least, Christine doesn't. It could've been ten minutes, twenty minutes, an hour. . . But Christine doesn't care. She feels safe. She doesn't know why – she's only just met Erik. And yet there's something about him that is gloriously striking.

Suddenly she hears horses galloping. Her hand breaks contact with Erik's as she turns round and notices her carriage is here.

"That is my carriage. . . I must go, Erik."

"I see. . . You are wealthy, then."

"Not by choice, Monsieur." Immediately after she says this her eyes go wide and clasps a hand over her mouth. That was a lie, she thinks. The choice was fully mine.

She looks up at Erik. He's smiling.

"I suppose you must go, Christine."

"Yes, Erik." She walks forward and leans down to her father's grave and places a light kiss on its cold stone edifice. "Goodbye, father."

"Well, Mademoiselle. This must be our goodbye, then." He picks up her gloved hand and kisses it. "Until we meet again."

"Yes, Monsieur." She turns away from him and begins to make her way toward the awaiting carriage, but a question suddenly pops into her head. She turns around to face him. "Where do you live, Erik?"

"The Opera Populaire, Christine."

A look of happiness and confusion sweeps over her face. "I used to live there. For about four years, in fact."

"I have just moved there."

"Oh, I see." She turns around again, but a firm grip on her left arm stops her in her tracks.

"You say you are rich, Christine, and yet you lived at the opera house?"

"It is a long story," she says quietly. "What do you do there?"

"That is a long story too."

Christine laughs. She is intrigued, but knows that she can't keep her driver waiting much longer. She allocates herself one more question.

"And what is your surname, monsieur?"

"Destler, Mademoiselle. Yours?"

It takes Christine a while to figure out how to answer such a simple question. However, she finally reaches a conclusion, and speaks it confidently and loudly:

"Daaé."

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